Neymar wasn’t used to being around people.

  He could feel himself locking up whenever he was spoken to. Anger would flash across his skin at the thought of someone staring at him.

  One step out of his room, and he was reminded of how much his large and imposing size intimidated people. It was gratifying, once, an unexpected power he held. However, in the midst of his grief, he came to loathe that power.

  He never meant anyone any harm, so why do they speak to him that way? Why do they look at him that way? Why did they turn away from him so easily?

  He was almost tempted to give them a reason, to validate their fears by turning into the monster they wanted him to be.

  No, solitude was better.

  Solitude meant he would never have to feel disappointed.

  So when he decided to stay at Abel’s side, he told himself he didn’t care what would happen to Abel, as long as Madam Fenharrow’s name was protected.

  But then Abel decided to leave his side for a guitar of all things, and Neymar was surprised to find that he was off-balance. There was an emptiness beside him. What he felt was almost disappointment.

  He pretended he didn’t mind. It was momentary.

  But then it happened again on the same day.

  See, every student in the school had to enroll in a sport and could elect between track and field, and team sports. Neymar insisted they do an independent sport to avoid conversations that could expose themselves as non-Altiman. Abel failed to see how Empire games could expose them and elected team sports in spite of him.

  And thus Neymar got the solitude he wanted, and was bitter for it.

  He grumbled to himself as he approached the squat storage shed of a locker room where he was crammed with a dozen other boys. The room fell into a hush when he entered.

  Great.

  Neymar attempted to ignore the glances as he began to undress in front of his square locker.

  “You’re a rather big guy.” A voice piped up behind him.

  He was not in the mood for this shit.

  “Really? I never noticed.” Neymar remarked sarcastically. He peered over his shoulder to find Milo standing behind him. The same Milo that confronted Quinn Volta the other day and harassed her until she socked him in the face. The same Milo who insisted on weeding out potential Catcher snitches at every opportunity. The same Milo who harassed and cornered anyone who had a crumb of information on his true prey.

  The Tyrant of the Metalworks Academy.

  Milo was also shirtless. Blue marks stretched across the surface of his olive toned skin, covering part of his lean shoulders and chest and extended across his back in an arc. The Mark of the Altiman, a pattern of hereditary skin stains that could be found on any Altiman’s skin. It is said to be the curse mark of the people, glimmering with the same tint as activated Altiman Glass.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  It was the first time Neymar had seen them in person, and that made him nervous.

  This can’t be good.

  “Funny! You’re nothing like your cousin, you know.” Milo marveled, amused.

  “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You look different, your accent is different, you even react differently. Why, it’s hard to think you’ve grown up in the same house. Isn’t that what you said happened?” Milo listed with his fingers, his scrutinizing eyes never leaving Neymar’s.

  Well shit. He pays attention.

  “There’s an explanation for that.”

  “Go ahead.” Milo gestured. His eyes flicked down to Neymar’s shoulders, noticeably bare in his tank top. Neymar’s hackles rose.

  Why don’t you mind your own damn business?

  Shit. Think of something believable. Something simple.

  “You know when you hate someone so much that you want to go against everything they stand for out of spite?”

  “That’s your excuse? You and your cousin hate each other?” Milo raised an eyebrow.

  “That was how our parents were like to each other.” Neymar folded his arms, satisfied with his response.

  “… So?”

  “So Abel is a border town hick, and I belong in the Capital.”

  “You two seem to get along.” Milo raised an eyebrow.

  Neymar scoffed.

  “Let me be clear. I hate his guts.” He sighed. “But that’s the thing about family. You think they’re all you have, so you stick with them. You get used to them.”

  As much as Neymar wanted to believe he was spewing pure bullshit, the words were familiar enough to him that he couldn’t deny the thread of truth— he was merely superimposing Abel onto his past life.

  And when an aunt who hates everything you stand for is forced to take care of you after your parents’ death…

  Well, no time to think about that now.

  The sincerity in Neymar’s voice seemed to convince Milo enough to quiet him, but when he wouldn’t move from his spot, Neymar turned to him again.

  “Anything else you need?”

  “Oh I’m just verifying.”

  “Verifying what?”

  “That you’re family.” Milo’s eyes skimmed Neymar’s bare shoulders again.

  Neymar’s lips pursed in a thin line.

  Nosy little…

  Neymar pulled his tank off, revealing a familiar pattern of blue marks stretched across his back.

  They were slight and failed to gleam with a soft reflective sheen the way that Milo’s did. But then again, they were just an imitation painted on by Abel that morning after days of training with Madam Fenharrow poring over an old book from her husband’s collection detailing studies of the birthmark, after all. The body paint stained his skin, and that was more than enough to suffice as long as nobody looked too closely.

  He hoped Milo didn’t.

  Neymar pulled on his sports jersey as soon as he caught the shift in Milo’s eyes.

  “So what does it look like to you, detective?” Sardonic venom dripped from Neymar’s lips.

  Milo clapped down on Neymar’s shoulder roughly.

  “I don’t mean anything by it, brother. Just gotta haze you a bit.” Milo grinned with the warmth of a benevolent king.

  He then leaned in conspiratorially.

  “Say, how fast are you?”

  ——

  The exercise field was a dusty and uneven plot of land, with dips and bumps that threatened to twist the ankles of the swarm of students that began their warm-up jog.

  Neymar’s strides were long and powerful, but lagged despite his larger frame— the curse of not yet acclimating to his growth spurt. He managed enough to keep pace with the majority of the class, his head sticking above the herd like a periscope.

  Milo, on the other hand, was an excellent runner. He led the pack, throwing his head back to shittalk between breaths as a way to encourage the rest of the sweaty, panting crowd. He lunged over dips and bumps in the terrain with the grace of someone who had once eaten shit and knew better. The thought comforted Neymar.

  As they bounded up to the final stretch, Neymar made a sprint for it, eclipsing the majority of the pack and closing in on Milo’s back.

  He was just inches away from surpassing Milo before they reached the finish line. Milo had won, but just barely.

  “Commendable work.” Milo tossed a water canteen Neymar’s way as they began to cool down.

  Neymar grunted and pressed the flat surface of the canteen to his sweaty forehead first before opening it up to chug. He had a feeling Milo was testing him for something. From the moment the boy approached him, Neymar knew that he only did so because Neymar was tall, well-built, and strong. A suitable henchman to add to his crew to intimidate others into falling in line.

  And Neymar was willing to play ball with that. It was a chance to find some protection from the dangers of the District in return, after all.

  After a quick swipe of his mouth, Neymar coughed out, “So is this it? Am I finally in, or are there other bloody fistfighting welcoming committees in my future?”

  Milo gave Neymar an odd look.

  “I’ll admit I was being a bit of an ass back at the lockers, but what are you talking about?”

  “So you don’t know who sent those punks after me and my cousin in the alley the other day?” Neymar scoffed.

  “You got jumped? When?” Milo’s genuine surprise caught Neymar off-guard.

  “On our first day— That’s not normal here?”

  “… It’s unique.” Milo attempted to cough out, his eyes flicking rapidly as he searched his thoughts to make sense of it. “But just a one-time thing, I’m sure. That must be why she…”

  “Who has that kind of manpower? Why us?” Neymar closed in on Milo when his gaze seemed to measure Neymar again. “Who is she?”

  The words made Milo’s gaze twitch. He hesitated.

  Neymar pivoted around to meet Milo’s line of sight.

  “Didn’t you proclaim yourself as a protector for the District? I don’t feel very protected.”

  “That is—“

  Milo let out a sigh, genuine guilt crossing his features.

  “Look. I can’t give you answers, but stick with me and she’ll leave you alone.”

  So they’re allies, or at the very least familiar enough to cut an agreement.

  Neymar’s lips quirked into a small smile of triumph. One step closer to unraveling this mystery.

  One step closer to surviving this hellscape in peace.

  “… Count me in, chief.”